112

WE PARTED IN SADNESS.

Each felt that the past we could never recover, Each felt that the future no hope could re

store;

She shudder'd at wringing the heart of her lover, I dared not to say I must meet her no more.

Long years have gone by, and the spring-time smiles ever,

As o'er our young loves it first smiled in their birth.

Long years have gone by, yet that parting, O!

never

Can it be forgotten by either on earth.

The note of each wild bird that carols toward heaven,

Must tell her of swift-winged hopes that were

mine,

And the dew that steals over each blossom at

even,

Tells me of the tear-drop that wept their

decline.

HOFFMAN.

ROSALIE CLARE.

WHO owns not she's peerless, who calls her not

fair,

Who questions the beauty of ROSALIE CLARE? Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And though harnessed in proof he must perish or yield;

For no gallant can splinter, no charger may dare The lance that is couched for young ROSALIE CLARE.

When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is pour'd,

And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up From each lip that is wet from the dew of the

cup,

What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whisper'd more warmly, than ROSALIE CLARE?

They may talk of the land of the olive and vine, Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine; Of the houris that gladden the East with their smiles,

Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles:

H

But what flower of far-away clime can compare With the blossom of ours-bright ROSALIE CLARE?

Who owns she's not peerless, who calls her not fair?

Let him meet but the glances of ROSALIE CLARE! Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her

form,

And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet ROSALIE CLARE.

CHARLES.

SONG.

UNLESS with my Amanda bless'd,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower;
Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower.

Awaken'd by the genial year,

In vain the birds around me sing;
In vain the fresh'ning fields appear :-
Without my love there is no Spring.

THOMSON.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD

TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountains yield.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidering all with leaves of myrtle:

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs ;-
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

116 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

MARLOWE.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD.

IF all the world and Love were young,
And truth on every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flock from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And Age complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten
In folly ripe-in reason rotten.